Sensory stimuli
by Checkmate 24601
Summary: Via their senses, they learn more about each other. First one up is: Sight. Second one will be: Touch.


**Sensory stimuli**

**Sight**

_A riot of colour._

It is no understatement to say that she is bright, vivid, _so very Alive_. So Byakuya finds it ironic, as he looks back with hindsight, that the first time they meet, he doesn't see her at all. His eyes skim over her hunched form _like a pebble skittering on ice _as she kneels beside the injured orange-haired brat _who beat him soundly – physically and ideologically_, focusing on the human boy recovering beneath the golden elliptical healing shield.

_First time: He doesn't see her at all._

There is a brief indentation in his memory of a head of curious tangerine and impossibly dusky lashes over strange pearls as he sits in his hospital bed, Renji at his side for company.

"_Kurosaki-kun, what are you doing up here? It's dangerous." _He allows Kurosaki Ichigo to voice his thought that the pot is calling the kettle black. Then her eyes turn toward him, and he is surprised, caught by the strange cheerful irises _they're not _just _pearl grey (there is an underhue of iris permeating the grey, which is ringed by a rim of silver) – _

"_Take care Byakuya-san!"_

Fingers release the ledge, and she plunges out of sight.

He does not include her in his bemused observation about respectful address. _"How long does he intend to call me by first name?" _he asked Renji, who could provide no response.

Second time: That memory does not linger. Like a breeze ruffling the surface of pond water, the ripples eventually settle _becoming placid once more_.

Third time: He sees her constantly for a month.

She is training with Rukia _in preparation for War_, often spending her mornings and afternoons on Thirteenth Division grounds. Yet he seems to catch more glimpses of her than he would care to admit.

_A curtain of auburn ribboning around the corner of his estate, like a triumphant banner, at the beckoning of dusk._

_Her flustered silhouette in the kitchens at night for a cup of water._

_Her strange pink "track suit" when she races after Rukia in the gardens or at the first break of dawn when she goes for a morning jog. _

The image resolution becomes more solid for the first time. The capture of the camera lenses gather the myriad of colours _like an amateur_. The subject is not staying still long enough for the mind's eye to catch. The form and edges blur on the photograph _an explosion of kaleidoscopic tints and shades, fragments, shards. Incomplete. _

The next month, she disappears. (Out of her own volition or involuntarily? His mind whispers doubts then contradictions.) He retreats to the dark room, unwilling to follow such strands of thought for too long for fear of what he may find.

She remains absent the next month.

And the next.

And the next.

After four months, Byakuya reaches back into his inner sanctum for those images. _Has she changed? _he wonders when the oil lamps burn low, nearly flickering out to gutter, after another day of drilling himself and his squad.

He reaches inward only to discover that instead of a sepia photograph, he only finds Negatives of the original images. Chiaroscuro mocks him as the details become Lost. His irritation with himself _neither Rukia nor Renji are there to assuage him _turns into a hurricane of angry sakura petals, slicing out at the drab grey skyline. The colours and the vitality of the rest of his fellow shinigamis appear to be leeching out in time with every pulse of his heart.

There is a heavy Battle.

Sword clashes and flares of _kido _intermittently illuminate the chafing sands of Hueco Mundo, _like dying fluorescent light tubes. _There is harsh, unnatural sunlight from the artificial Sun which Aizen crafted. The cold shine of the eternal crescent moon offers no comfort across the dark landscape, but Byakuya pays no mind to the jarring discordance of dark and light as he fights to protect his unconscious sister.

Just when it seems interminable _and all is lost, _it's over. Aizen is defeated by the Substitute Shinigami. They have won.

He does not feel victorious when he finally drinks in the sight of her. Torn white rags of an imposed uniform disgust and chill him as he takes in the ripped fabric which bare her shoulders and the suggestive keyhole pattern forming the pattern of the lower dress. His eyes narrow on her bruised face. She turns her face away from his inspection as though ashamed. Bruises to her left eye and cheekbones. Raised skin and diagonal lines _too evenly spread to be anything else but claws _around her biceps.

And these are only the external marks. What is she going through inside? Trauma? Fear? _Nightmares?_

It's like looking at a stranger _or perhaps at a cracked mirror. _

Byakuya remembers when he sees a worn tapestry weaving of his deceased mother – she died during childbirth. Seeing flowing black hair and lips arched _just so, dictated by the painter most likely _did not ring remembrance. He might as well have not known the woman at all despite seeing her face, despite being pushed out from her womb into the world of Soul Society.

He feels the same way now as he looks at Inoue Orihime.

He loses track of Time as he searches her out among the crowd _of her human nakama, of the survivors._

She recovers _like a damaged art masterpiece restored by expert hands, being coaxed and gently reminded "to eat, Inoue-san" _back to her former healthy hue. It is a while yet before the Sun returns to her hollow cheeks.

After the 18 months of no contact, she flowers from teenager to young woman-child.

After the Quincy invasion, when he regains consciousness, when the conflict is once more brought to an end by Kurosaki, Her and their companions, she is beside his bedside, returning the favour from long ago as she gently spoons broth into his mouth.

He tries to frame her during those times _to keep her for Keepsake _when she once again must return to the World of the Living. He fails because of the way his bed faces the window, and with the Sun behind her, there is too much Shadow in her face.

He tells Senbonzakura that his description is metaphorical only as he represses the urge to tremble, to grab her hands when her tears pitter patter onto his face when he feigns sleep.

Miraculously he regains the use of his limbs, his powers and his reiatsu. He returns to his duties as Sixth Division Captain.

The years melt into decades but conflicts continue to arise, and She reappears each time despite graduating into university, moving away to Tokyo, getting married, getting divorced, working as a surgeon.

Whenever she visits his office, he notes the increase number of his rank-and-file soldiers dropping by to "verify this paperwork, Sir". It is a common sight for shinigamis within and without his division to walk into filing cabinets and doorframes when she is nearby, when she is smiling.

Orihime does not see his frown at shinigami and other noblemen _when their gazes become too lecherous for his taste. _Neither does she observe men being interceded from flirting with her by an infamous glare.

Byakuya looks up, gratified and disappointed that she does not notice, only to find that he is being put under the watch. He stares back at Ukitake and Kyouraku-taichou with an arched brow when they unabashedly look at him. It is only when they turn away that he wonders what it is that they see in him.

He refuses to turn the focus on himself, refuses to look inward.

After decades of procrastination, he comes to a gradual, gradual realisation.

It is after she gently shoos his nephew – Rukia ended up proposing to devoted, faithful Renji – away to his afternoon nap, when she is lying down in his sakura orchard, that he infringes her space.

She smiles. She does not see the difference this time in their proximity from other times. _They became good friends over the years._

It is only when he leans over her _closer than he ever had reached out for, _interlacing his hands with hers and lowering himself to kiss her, that she flushes and tilts her lips away.

Rejection.

Slightly stung, but he refuses to turn back. He knows now what he has been seeing for the past cycle of decades.

She cannot escape, _the halo of her auburn hair now peppered generously with grey, and greater laugh lines around her eyes and mouth, _but her eyes implore her release from his hold. He refuses still.

"_What are you ashamed of?"_

"_Byakuya-san, I am 82 years old. I look …" _

"…"

"…"

"_Your point being…?"_

"_Don't mock me! I hardly look like a young girl anymore, and the women from your omiai –"_

"_You know full well I don't care for any of them."_

"_That's not the point! … I'm old!"_

"…"

"…"

"_I sometimes forget how young you are."_

"_What are you talking about –"_

"_Orihime…you forget that you're speaking to someone who is 230 years old. … If I actually look my age, perhaps you would have nothing to do with me instead."_

(His dry humour has developed and been a little more fine-tuned over the years.)

When he tries to kiss her again, Orihime does not shy away.

**A/N **Hi minna, I'm afraid I'm too busy to write a multi-chap fic of our two favourite characters – in fact, I shouldn't be writing at all given how much else I need to do – but I hope you'll settle for a few interconnected one-shots.

Much thanks for your understanding!

Next one up is: Touch.


End file.
